


Jessica Jones And The Temple of Claire

by seriousfic



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Curtain Fic, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5487554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousfic/pseuds/seriousfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Booty calls with Jess are nice, but Claire would really like a date night with more conversation than what positions they should use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jessica Jones And The Temple of Claire

“I want to take you out on a date,” Claire said, the moment Jessica picked up her phone.

 

“Okay,” Jessica said agreeably. “Which of us wears the strap-on?”

 

“No strap-ons,” Claire said, sounding breathy and with that pitch in her voice she got when she was nervous, which was hardly ever. Claire usually gave great phone. Jessica’s detective instincts nudged her where her social skills had stopped pulling their weight. “No nudity for at least fifteen minutes. An actual… sorta… date.”

 

“What’s that like?” Jessica asked. She was trying not to be a bitch, Claire being able to out-bitch her any day of the week, but she thought the curiosity in her voice tipped it over into mere jerkiness.

 

“Nothing too painful,” Claire promised, equilibrium back, razzing Jessica gently as she was obliged to. “No fancy dress, no slow dances, no expensive restaurant. You come over to my apartment and, before we have sex, we watch a movie and eat dinner.”

 

“Why’s it have to be your apartment? What’s wrong with my apartment?”

 

Stupid question. Right through the cell tower, Jessica could detect Claire sorting her answers into alphabetical order. “My place has a bigger TV.” Good God. With all the lawyers she knew, how was it a nurse was the biggest bullshit artist Jessica had ever known? Did she spend a lot of time lying to cancer patients about surviving and growing their hair back or something?

 

“My place has more beer,” Jessica countered.

 

“No alcohol.”

 

“Deal’s off.”

 

Compromise. Something else in Claire’s utility belt. “Mixed drinks. _Only_ mixed drinks.” The woman could probably get the Black Widow to agree to stop looking so pretty.

 

“Uh-huh,” Jessica agreed reluctantly. “So what movie? That Italian one where the two chicks scissor for ten minutes?”

 

“It’s French.”

 

“Ha! You’d know.”

 

“I would know, since I’ve watched a movie with subtitles _ever.”_

“Star Wars has subtitles.”

 

“We’re watching a romance.”

 

“Jabba the Hutt, talks in Belgian or something.”

 

“Pride & Prejudice,” Claire continued. “It’s British and has Colin Firth, so whitey—that’s you—will love it.”

 

“Is it a stoner movie? Is that it? Are we getting high?”

 

“Come by at seven. I’ll make my famous nachos.”

 

“If this is an intervention, I’m shoving my fist up your ass.”

 

“Sex after the movie, remember.”

 

***

 

The shit thing about going on a date with Claire—as opposed to a booty call, which more elegantly fit Jessica’s skill set of getting naked and being willing to explore the limits of self-esteem—was that she felt obliged to put in an effort. Claire put up a cool front, but it’d been a month since they started bumping uglies and obviously she felt it was time for the relationship to go from nonexistent to ‘maybe that Zapruder guy caught it on camera.’

 

And Jessica liked her, she did. Not enough to let her off the insane clown car ride that was a life with her in it, but Claire was hot, she knew some great hangover cures, and her ass was out of this world. Usually, Jessica would count that under the hot proviso, but dat ass deserved its own categorization. From the amount of time Jessica spent kissing and fondling that butt—not to mention slapping it when Claire was very horny _slash_ a little drunk—she and Claire were pretty much in a ménage a trois with badonkadonk.

 

So instead of wearing the same outfit she always did, Jessica went to the store and bought a new pair of jeans (they didn’t make boot-cut anymore? When’d that happen?) and a new shirt and, God help her, a new bra. But no new bottoms. She loved her Hanes briefs, little holes under the elastic waist and all.

 

She also showered—as she did every day, thank you very much—but this time she actually did some of the crazy shit Pinterest said she was supposed to do in the shower. On one commando raid visit, Trish had dropped off a minibar of ‘essentials’ and Jess had figured most of them went in the shower nook. She wasn’t sure what difference they made, except that she was pretty sure one of them got rid of that rash she had. Which was cool.

 

Then she shaved. That was actually the easy part. Her dumb secret origin had enhanced her durability at least enough that she had to work to nick or cut herself with a razor. Leg hairs, not so lucky. She also did her pussy, which presumably could pass the same stress test, but hell if she was going to find out. There, slow and steady won the race.

 

Pride & Prejudice had better get this chick in the mood. Jessica was not shaving her coot just to end up with a goodnight kiss and her bra still on.

 

All this _romance_ made her feel like turning into a Grinch, so she decided to lay it on thick and buy a bouquet of white roses. The plan didn’t work. When she went into Claire’s new, no-Daredevils-allowed apartment—superstrength had obliged her to help Nurse Temple move in—Claire opened the door and instantaneously gushed over how lovely the roses were, immediately taking them to put in water. But they’d pretty much been cut in half at the belly button, right? Water was really just prolonging the inevitable. Dangling hope in front of their petals. It was like a botanical Saw movie, if you stopped to think about it.

 

Claire ignored Jessica’s ruminations on the subject, determined to be touched by the gesture. “And you dressed up!” she said as she filled a vase with water. “I like the shirt! Avengers on it—it’s from after 2012!”

 

“Not that long after,” Jessica said defensively. “And you’re making me feel very un punk rock at the moment.”

 

“Sorry. There’s a candy dish if you want M&Ms.”

 

“I don’t want any—“ Jess’s hand was already dipping into it. “Stupid M&Ms…” she finished in a small voice.

 

Claire just smiled at her, and Jessica had the sickening feeling that Claire had bought them just for her. She ate them and felt herself, from the outside looking in, trying to make herself enjoy them even more than she’d normally enjoy fucking M&Ms because Claire had gotten them for her just to make her feel at home—Christ, she was fucked up. Made her want to cry. Made her want a drink.

 

She did neither, instead plopping herself down on the couch and putting her feet up on the coffee table (combat boots and all) and daring Claire to say anything about it. Claire didn’t say shit. Just sat down beside her and turned the TV on, stereo and Blu-Ray player and everything all already cranked up. Damn, how much did nurses make? Jess was in the wrong line of work…

 

Claire inserted herself—like a surgeon, har har har—under Jess’s arm and Jessica, feeling a little lousy about putting her stupid boots up on the nice coffee table, got into a clinch with her and did her best to be… cuddly. It seemed to mostly consist of having boobs. Jessica didn’t know how she could be better at having boobs than she was: clearly Claire ‘Effing D-cups’ Temple was the expert in that field. But, a bit like a dog tolerating a cat licking it, she submitted to a rigmarole of couple-y touches.

 

Thigh rubbed and arm scratched and hair played with and nuzzling, so much nuzzling. It felt weird, being the object of so much affection with any sex waaay on the backburner (they were watching a costume drama, for Christ’s sake). Like she’d been teleported back to a shared childhood bed with Trish, only now there was no pushing Trish out of the bed for jabbing her with cold feet.

 

And goddamnit, she liked the movie. It was sweet and funny and everyone was nice, even if everyone _else_ didn’t realize it, and she wanted everyone to be happy and hug in a big pile and shit, _shit,_ was this what she’d been like before Kilgrave? Was this who she’d been meant to end up as? All the pieces she’d shattered into, she had no idea how they fit together, but whoever or whatever that was, it had a thing for Jane fucking Austen?

 

She was fucking sniffling and Claire was holding her close, knowing it had nothing to do with the movie’s romantic complications, knowing this was the reason Jess kept her at arm’s length, so she wouldn’t be there when Jessica slipped from not thinking about it to the other damn thing.

 

“Bae…” Claire said gently, and it was so ridiculous, fucking _silly_ that Jess had to laugh.

 

“Wow, black people say that? I thought it was just a thing white people did to feel black. Like anal sex.”

 

“Jess,” and Christ, how gentle could that voice get? It was like on the sassiness dial, it went to negative eleven. Nothing but _concern._ “Do you need to leave? I’ll understand if—“

 

“I’m fine.” It was one fucking tear, maybe two. She’d already wiped them, it away. “Forget it. Sometimes I’m just a little overcome by the beauty of the world and the power of cinema, okay? Sheesh.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Claire said, tucking herself back into Jessica’s side. This time, Jess was a little glad to have her there. Just like she’d been glad for Trish’s cold feet—not letting her think about funerals and Game Boys. “You know I get it, right? You don’t have to explain shit to me. You tell me what you need, it’s cool. You need me to go, you need to come over, you need me to stay, leave, whatever…”

 

“Can I ask you a question?” Jessica asked, with only mild bitchiness.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can I scritch your hair?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You know.” Jessica curled her fingers into a claw. “I put my fingers in your hair. I use my nails to scratch at your scalp, or itch at it, whatever you want to call it. It feels nice. Like what you’ve been doing.”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

“Great.” Marshalling all her foster sister skills, Jessica planted her hand on top of Claire’s head and started using it as a scratching post. Was gratified when a relaxed smile ghosted onto Claire’s lips. “Because I know how you people are sensitive about your hair.”

 

“You people?”

 

“You know, dark-skinned, came from Africa, like Tyler Perry movies…”

 

“Oh, so now it’s an ebony and ivory thing.”

 

“Well, I’ve gotten past the lesbian thing, and the age difference—“

 

“ _What_ age difference, Jones?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“At least I have an ass, white girl.”

 

“I’ll concede that.”

 

“You have a butt. It’s not the same thing.”

 

“That’s why my college lesbian fling didn’t work out.”

 

“And don’t you go thinking that you can just shove your hand all up in some brother’s ‘do just because I said we were cool. This isn’t a hood pass. There isn’t even such a thing as a hood pass. There’s just you staying in your lane.”

 

“For the record, though, you have my permission to call me a honky.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah. A suburb pass.”

 

Claire laughed, rich and deep. She gave Jessica’s leg a brisk rub and then ruffled her hair for good measure. Jessica made an extravagantly disgusted grunt before pulling Claire down onto her lap, the better to scratch her back and rub her shoulders and feel Claire’s arms wrapped around her legs—the two of them making some kind of fucked up sense out of this unconducive positioning. Which just about covered it, as far as Jess was concerned.

 

“Okay, now that we’ve established I can touch your hair, let’s move on to whether or not black people really celebrate Kwanzaa?”

 

“Of course not. We just made that up to fool y’all.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“You crackers are really unobservant—you actually think we have a problem with Iggy Azalea?”

 

Laughing, Jessica felt a sudden swell of understanding, like she and Claire were on the same wavelength. Like Claire knew, without Jess having to find those words she could never lay hands on, that the immune system response in Jess’s fucked up skull wasn’t her fault, that it was just what her biology did when confronted with the possibility of someone she could express trust and affection for. Things got awkward and shitty and dumb, and you could either stick it out or bolt.

 

So far, there’d only been one person in her life that hadn’t bolted, and Jessica was legally related to her.

 

Two would take some getting used to.

 

“You have no idea how serious getting a cold was back then,” Claire commented five minutes later, observing the Victorians traipsing about in the rain. “Going out into a storm was like being in a hard hat zone or something.”

 

“Remind me never to watch Grey’s Anatomy with you.”

 

“All I ask is that these medical shows do a better job than Scrubs. _Scrubs._ Now that show knew what was up.”


End file.
